Sunday, 19 April 2009

Out of the fading morning fog, inA powdery blue dayThe soft forms moving in the dreamDeep, there, out of the rocks, by the springWhere the oracle waits with pressed lipsUnder the boughs of the oak Out of the fading morning fog, in a powdery blue day Under the bays of the oak and the laurel One can almost imagine the soft forms movingThrough the obscurity of the dream To a hype that insinuates like music from a zither Deep there, out of the rocks, by the spring Where the oracle waits with lips pressed Almost as tight as the drawer of the cashboxThe swishing of the garments of the departingMuses, through the receding fog

Difficult indeed to endure without lament is the current desacralization of poetry in the hands of the academically institutionalized and otherwise multiply self privileged current license holders.

But we must remember that for Apollo to build his temple over that of the Python he had slain was just another case of generational conflict and supercession, the saddest and oldest dialectic which we can now come to understand only with difficulty because of its masking as class struggle.

So now it is an academic business opportunity and conferencing site.

When Apollo killed the Python the Castalian Spring flowed toward the temple but went underground and vanished, leaving the cleft from which arose the vapors that made the oracle so high she could not but utter her prophecies, the lucky girl.